


empathy to slow you down

by belovedmuerto



Series: An Experiment in Empathy [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Gen, Psychic Bond, Sherlock is finally starting to learn, empath!John, experiment in empathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-24
Updated: 2011-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-26 12:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a bit overwhelmed after he and Sherlock return from their trip to Sussex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	empathy to slow you down

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Thanksgiving, American readers! Here's something to do other than watch football! And as for non-American readers, happy Thursday (Or Friday, depending on where you are)!
> 
> I am hoping to have the next two stories in the series posted by the end of the weekend as well. I do so spoil y'all, don't i?
> 
> Thanks, as always, go to the awesomest beta ever, Castiron. Also to my wonderful Brit-picker red_adam. Any remaining Americanisms are entirely my own doing. Or else they weren't necessarily American but weren't British and I decided not to be bothered. Hopefully they aren't awfully distracting. Either way they're my fault.

“Come on, John!”

John turns his face into his pillow with a groan. His own comfortable, worn-in pillow in his own bed back in his own flat. “Eurgh,” he grunts. “Fuck off!” He pulls the tangled bedclothes from beneath himself and over his head.

“Fuck,” he mutters into the pillow, again.

“John?”

“Go away,” John says, still into his pillow.

“John, what’s wrong?” Sherlock asks, perching on the side of the bed. “Lestrade has a case for us, you need to get up and get dressed.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, can’t you tell I've a splitting headache? Don’t you pay any attention? Can’t you just leave me alone for a little while?”

John regrets his words _immediately_.

Sherlock draws back like John had slapped him. “Oh.” He nods once, his expression going aloof and cold. Inwardly, Sherlock cringes, feelings overwhelmingly hurt, and John wants to fall into a pit, knowing that he’d caused that, that he’d accused this man of being inattentive. “Oh, right. I’ll--”

“Wait, stop.” John grabs his arm before Sherlock can more than half-rise, makes sure Sherlock feels his regret. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry; I shouldn’t have snapped at you, I shouldn’t take this out on you. Please, forgive me.”

Sherlock nods again, but he is still crestfallen. He twists his arm in John’s grip to take his hand. “I couldn’t interpret, John.”

John looks up at Sherlock, then sits up, despite the pounding in his head. “What do you mean?”

“I could tell,” Sherlock pauses, sits again, and searches for the right words. “I could tell that you aren’t feeling well, John. But I couldn’t interpret in what ways. It’s hard for me to see, to figure out how you feel, sometimes.”

“Oh.” John looks a question at his flatmate and friend. “Why?”

“I don’t have the widest frame of reference when it comes to emotions, John.”

“I know that, but I would think it would be easier to tell with me.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “It is most of the time, but some things are,” he pauses again, then shrugs. “They’re harder to parse.”

Abruptly, Sherlock lets John’s hand go, jumps to his feet and leaves the room.

John flops back into his pillow. It’s been a rough couple days since their return from Sussex; he’d thought that Sherlock understood why. He’s done his best to keep the brunt of it from Sherlock; they shouldn’t both have to deal with the onslaught of human emotion coming back to London had immersed them in. He doesn’t want Sherlock to have to suffer as much as he is. He doesn’t want Sherlock to suffer at all, actually. It’s doing a number on his own head, though.

His wall, however, is holding so far. As is Sherlock’s. Thank every star and god in the firmament.

Sherlock returns about five minutes later, holding a steaming mug of tea carefully before him. He smiles at John and hands it over.

“You always make me tea when I don’t feel myself,” he explains, and John can’t help but smile at him.

“Sherlock, you don’t have to--” John cuts himself off. Best not to discourage Sherlock’s more accommodating impulses. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

Sherlock shrugs out of his coat and sits back down on the bed. “I’ll text Lestrade and let him know he’ll have to make do without us this time.”

“You should go, Sherlock.”

“But John,” Sherlock starts. John holds up a hand to forestall him.

“You don’t need me, Sherlock, and Lestrade does right now. I don’t think I can handle it today, not with my head like this, not with all the people. I just need a bit more time to adjust. And this is your job, this is what you do. You should go. I’ll kip here and hopefully I’ll be able to go out when you need to do the legwork. Hopefully, anyway.”

Sherlock looks at him doubtfully. He reaches out and grabs John’s hand again, and John can’t entirely keep Sherlock from feeling the swirls of emotion lapping at the fringes of his mind, turning his vision slightly grey around the edges with their force. Sherlock gasps before John manages to shut away the majority of it.

“John,” he breathes. “I’m not sure I should leave you like this.”

“You should,” John replies. “I’ll take something strong and go to sleep, I’ll be alright. I’ll be better later. It’s just that it's taking some adjustment. Really. Go, Sherlock. You need this as much as I need some time to adjust to being back in the city.”

“We can be back in Sussex by the end of the day, John.”

“I know. I appreciate that. But we can’t hide in the countryside forever; you’d die of boredom or else I’d end up killing you. I need to adjust, that’s all. I promise, Sherlock. Don’t worry about me. The Work needs you. Go.”

**

Once Sherlock has gone, John gets out of bed long enough to brew another cup of tea and take the strongest sleeping pills he has before crawling back into his bed and surrendering gratefully to unconsciousness.

He drifts towards consciousness again later with drumming in his head, and dreams that he’s the Master, tearing through the universe after the Doctor, Sherlock as his own companion, ever at his side and calling him John for some reason. Over and over, just like the drumming.

“John, wake up. John, please. Wake up now. You’re starting to worry me. John. John?”

The long fingers threading into and out of his hair in time with the drumming are really quite pleasant, far more soothing than the voice that accompanies them, coloured with worry and something else that teases at John’s empathy without quite letting him identify it. John tightens his hold in a silent plea for peace and shifts closer. He drifts closer to consciousness, but the drugs are reluctant to release their hold on him.

“Are you awake? Are you waking up? John?”

John turns his head so his other ear is over Sherlock’s heart. “M’wake. Hush,” he slurs, and he sounds drugged even to himself. Perhaps the sleeping pill was a bit too strong.

“You’re not. You’re talking in your sleep now. At least you aren’t dead.”

“Mrmph,” John replies.

Sherlock sighs. “You shouldn’t have taken the sleeping pill, John.”

John grunts. He still hasn’t managed to actually open his eyes, but Sherlock isn’t as worried as he was a moment ago. He is still agitated though, and John is close enough to awake to realize it now.

“Wh’appened?”

“Nothing, it’s fine.”

“Boll’x, Sh’lock,” John slurs into the other man’s chest. He’s probably drooling on an eighty or hundred quid silk shirt right now, but he doesn’t care; Sherlock’s cleaning bills are his own problem. “Agitated.”

“I am not. Go back to sleep, John.”

“Why’djoo wake m’up?”

“Nothing, nothing. I’m sorry, go back to sleep. Is your head better?”

“Bit. Gonna make y’tell me.” John yawns. “Later.”

“Later, John,” Sherlock agrees.

“Don’t go? Take a nap.”

Sherlock gives a short chuckle. “You just want me to keep massaging your head.”

“Helps.”

“Indeed.” But Sherlock stays right where he is, and he continues to run his fingers soothingly through John’s short hair.

John quickly drops back into sleep, listening to the drumming of Sherlock’s heart.

**

Later, John drifts towards consciousness slowly. He dreams of Sherlock tucked up under his heart again, stamping his foot and protesting, _I’m right here, John, hello!_ , entirely himself and yet seemingly content next to John’s heart nonetheless.

The first thing he’s aware of outside his own head is that Sherlock’s face is mashed into his back, between his shoulders. His breath is hot against John’s back, and he makes a snuffling noise and tightens the arm that’s clamped around John’s chest.

The drug still hasn’t entirely worn off, so John merely shifts himself to be a little closer, a little more comfortable, and drifts back to sleep. He doesn’t notice that his headache is mostly gone.

**

“Are you going to tell me, Sherlock?”

“What’s that, John?” Sherlock is standing at the window with his instrument, but he hasn’t started playing yet. He’s been standing there for a while now, poised as though he’s about to start playing, but not actually starting.

Sherlock’s agitation has mostly settled, smoothed away, but it isn’t gone entirely and John wants to know whence it comes.

“Are you going to tell me what the issue was yesterday when you went out?”

Sherlock waves the bow in John’s general direction. “Oh that. That was nothing, John. Don’t worry about it.”

That’s what he says, anyway. But then, inconvenient though it undoubtedly is, Sherlock can’t quite lie to John anymore. John knows Sherlock isn’t being forthright. He’s being evasive and his agitation is spiking again, along with an overwhelming urge to flee, to hide.

So John lets it go. He’ll have it eventually.

Sherlock launches into something loud and aggressive, and John goes to make dinner.

**

John’s headache fades to a dull thumping and stays there for a couple days. His shielding holds.

Sherlock doesn’t get dressed for two days, and he ignores his phone.

Sherlock goes to the shops with John.

That’s pretty much the last straw. It's weird and completely not like Sherlock and John is more determined than ever to work out what's causing this behavior.

**

“Seriously, Sherlock. You need to tell me what happened. I can’t help if you won’t talk to me.”

“It was--”

“If you tell me one more time it was nothing I’m going to hit you.”

Sherlock grimaces. “I’m going for a walk.”

He flees.

“This is ridiculous,” John mutters to himself.

**

Sherlock doesn’t go far. His agitation hovers at the edges of John’s thoughts, a constant presence as he tries to go through the rest of his day, to ignore it as best he can and enjoy the novel he just started.

He can hear the comments Sherlock would be making about the triteness of the plot, and the transparency of the characters in his head.

He works out the ending by the time he gets to the second chapter.

John throws the book across the room.

**

John grunts and moves over as Sherlock invades his bed. “Nice walk?” he slurs into his pillow.

“How was the book?” Sherlock replies. His hands and feet are icy cold, despite the pleasantness of the weather.

John starts and shivers and glares into the dark of his room. “You need more iron in your diet, mate.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer. John can feel him gearing up to speak--because of course Sherlock waits ‘til the middle of the night to bring it up, to admit to what’s been on his mind for days. Of course he does. John wonders briefly, while he’s rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and trying to clear his head, if he’ll ever be able to get Sherlock through this, to a point where he can say things during the day. Or at least before John has gone to bed for the night.

“I couldn’t feel you in my head, John,” Sherlock whispers, eventually, when John is on the verge of saying something, on the verge of asking yet again, even though he knows that will shut Sherlock up immediately. “It's like I crossed some invisible line and you disappeared. I couldn't concentrate. My head felt almost empty. I never even made it to the crime-scene; I had to text Lestrade and tell him something had come up.”

 _Ah. So that’s the problem._ John hadn’t even noticed; he’d been in a drug-induced sleep at the time. This isn't something he'd considered before, that distance weakens the bond. It doesn't appear to sever it, though.

“It was so strange. You weren’t there with me, not even in my head. I don’t like it.”

John sighs, not in defeat or anger, but in acknowledgment of yet another thing they’ll have to deal with. It’s something else he hadn’t expected, hadn’t known would happen when he bonded them.

Life is one long series of “things I didn’t expect to happen when I saved Sherlock’s life” for John, these days.

Mostly, he’s OK with this.

“We’ll sort it out, Sherlock. One thing at a time, yeah?”

Sherlock curls around him, tucks his head in snug against John’s neck. “God, I hope so,” he murmurs, with a delicate shudder.

**

“Sherlock, I’m going to go for a walk.”

Sherlock jumps to his feet. “I should go with you.”

John shakes his head. “No, you really shouldn’t.”

“But, John--” His worry spikes.

John crosses the room and gently pushes him back down onto the couch, sits across from him on the coffee table. “I won’t go far, I promise. I need to get out of this flat for a bit, I need to work out the extent of...our range, I suppose. I won’t...I’ll let you know when I’m going to do it, okay?”

“Are you sure?”

John nods. “Sherlock, I have to make sure.”

“Make sure of what?” Sherlock asks softly. He’s wrapped his arms around himself, the only outward betrayal of the uncertainty he feels. John puts a hopefully reassuring hand on his knee.

“I have to make sure I can handle this, Sherlock. I’ve been cooped up in this flat since we got back from Sussex; I have no idea if being back is going to overwhelm me--us-- or if we can handle it, and I won’t know for sure until I actually get out there instead of hiding up here.”

Slowly, Sherlock nods. He takes a deep breath and braces himself. “Okay.”

“It’ll be fine,” John assures, despite his worry that it won’t be, at all. “I’ll go through the park. If I need you, you’ll know it.”

Sherlock nods again.

**

John ambles through the park, enjoying the sunshine and the fact that his shields aren’t crumbling around him. People flow around him and he hardly notices; their emotions flow through his head and back out again, a familiar river running a familiar course through his thoughts. _I can do this,_ he thinks, nearly giddy with the relief of it. _We can do this. We could actually pull this off. Without killing each other, even. We really might end up the dynamic duo._ John grins at the thought.

He makes sure he can feel Sherlock’s presence in his head, periodically sends reassurance along the lines of their connection, ignores the petulance that filters back along those lines from Sherlock. Sherlock will always be Sherlock, but John starts to hope that he might be able to help his friend get truly comfortable with this aspect of himself, and learn how to better deal with his own emotions.

Eventually, John decides to get the inevitable over with; may as well see what Sherlock meant now that he's pretty sure they're in the clear as far as shielding and being back in London go. And thank god for small mercies; John has no earthly clue what he would do if his shields had failed upon returning to Town again. As he prepares, he takes a moment to think about his shields, and realizes that they actually feel stronger. That's a pleasant side effect.

When he feels ready, he sends a feeling of warning, and then he deliberately walks out of range, keeps walking until Sherlock is entirely gone from his head.

It’s one of the weirdest things he can remember feeling in an awful long time. John doesn’t stay too long out of range, and it’s a relief when he can sense Sherlock again. The relief they’re both feeling laps back and forth between them, mixing until John isn’t sure which of them felt it more.

**

Sherlock is curled up on the sofa, absently tracing patterns on the cushion two inches in front of his face with one index finger. He doesn’t look over his shoulder when John walks back into the flat, but his shoulders slump in further relief.

John stands on the other side of the coffee table and watches for a moment before he speaks.

“We’re disturbingly co-dependent, you know that, right?” He crosses the room to drop into his chair; the headache is back, though nowhere near what it had been. He's fairly sure that they're in the clear, and as he spends more time around people again, the groove in his head where their emotions flow will smooth out and deepen again, and he'll get back to what he feels is normal.

Sherlock continues to stare very hard, very pointedly, at the back of the sofa, still tracing patterns. He doesn't have the same feeling of confidence that John does, and John tries to reassure him without words. It doesn't seem to help much.

After a few moments of that, John speaks up again. “It changes nothing, Sherlock. We were already pretty much attached at the hip before any of this.” John shrugs, even though Sherlock isn't looking at him; after everything else, realizing their level of codependency just doesn't bother him. At all. “So stop worrying. We'll work something out. I'm still with you; you won't have to be out of range much, and we'll figure something out for when it is required.”

Sherlock shrugs. His fingers fall still against the cushion of the sofa.

“Try being happy about this, a bit, maybe?” John gets up again and goes to rummage in the kitchen for the bottle of paracetamol he usually keeps in there.

“Will it last?” Sherlock calls, when John is completely out of sight.

John stops and sighs. “Your confidence is astounding, Sherlock.”

“I just want to be sure.”

“Well, I can't answer that for sure, Sherlock. I think it will, but I won't promise. Either way, we'll deal with it, but let's not burn our bridges when we're on them, OK? Are you hungry? I could go for some Pad Thai.”

“Okay,” Sherlock answers, to both questions.

John stands in the kitchen contemplating their growing collection of takeaway menus and feels it as Sherlock slowly lets go of his worry. He knows that Sherlock can't embrace the same faith in the unknown that he has, but the sense of faith in John that Sherlock has (and has no issue with) is astounding. John smiles and chooses a menu.


End file.
